Promposal (8 page)

I tucked the book into my bag and walked home. Now all I had to do was figure out what the hell I was going to wear that would be casual yet alluring.

D
ammit.” Wrong chord. That sounded like total crap. I strummed the right chord a few times to help my fingers remember, then wrote it down on the blank sheet music. “Much better.”

Milkshake meowed her approval and curled up in a tighter fur ball on my pillow.

“Josh,” Dad hollered from downstairs, “did you finish the laundry?”

“Yes,” I yelled back, glad he couldn't see me rolling my eyes. “Your basket is on your bedroom floor.” Where I always put it.

“Oh. Uh, thanks.”

Poor man. He always got forgetful when in writing mode. For the next twenty minutes, I focused on writing down and practicing the chords for the new song I was composing. When I heard the oven buzzer go off, I plopped my guitar on my bed and dashed downstairs. The scent of fresh lasagna made my stomach growl.

I whipped off the foil and set the timer for another fifteen minutes. I was ready to destroy this dinner.

I heard my text ringtone go off and realized I'd left my cell on the coffee table before starting guitar practice. I darted into the living room to grab it, opening it to find a message from Ethan.

We need to talk.

My stomach clenched. Dammit, I thought he'd dropped the inquisition, especially since I faked enthusiasm over our tentative ideas like no one's business.

Another message popped up.
I'm outside your door.
Followed by the front doorbell ringing just a few feet from me.

“Josh, can you get that?” Dad asked.

Shit. No running from it now. I tried to affect a casual air when I opened the door. “Hey,” I said to Ethan. “Come on in. Um, we're about to eat dinner soon, but you can stay if you want.”

He tucked his hands in his jeans pockets, slouching a little as he looked at me from the stoop. “Do you
want
me to stay?”

There was a hint of vulnerability in his eyes that gave me a guilty pinch in my chest. My avoidance was hurting his feelings. “Of course I do.” I opened the door wider and ushered him inside. “Besides, I made my world-famous lasagna, and you know there's a ton of it.”

The tension in his face relaxed, and he gave me a genuine smile as he took off his coat. “Sounds great.”

“Do I hear Ethan?” Dad asked from his office.

“You could see him too if you stopped yelling and got up every once in a while,” I teased. Dad was really bad to holler at everyone so he could keep his butt glued in the chair and eke out a few more words.

I heard a loud sigh; then Dad came out of the office, his black hair spiked all over on the top. He gave us both a wide grin. “The boy's
getting better at nagging me,” he said to Ethan with a laugh and a wink.

Ethan pushed up the green sleeves of his shirt, revealing golden arm hair and lean muscles. I bit back a sigh and turned toward the kitchen. Grabbed three plates and forks, plus cups. Folded napkins, set the table, anything to distract me from Ethan's presence just a few feet away.

“Can I help with anything?” he asked right behind me.

I stiffened and drew in a ragged breath. The scent of his cologne wafted in the air, and it filled me with the urge to bury my nose in his neck. “No. I'm . . . good,” I managed to say.

Finally, the timer went off again, and I fussed over the lasagna, cutting perfect-sized pieces and serving them up with dinner rolls. Dad and Ethan sat down at the table, and we dug in.

After taking a particularly large bite, Dad scratched at the thick whiskers on his jaw—he probably hadn't shaved for a few days now.

“You look like a wild man, Mr. Mendez,” Ethan said with a chuckle. His own jawline was smooth in contrast. “I haven't seen you so rugged in a while.”

“Yeah. Happens every time I get this close to a deadline,” he grumbled. “I still have a hundred pages to go, and the book is due to my editor in two weeks.”

Ethan gave a serious nod, then shot me a crooked half smile. He was all too familiar with my dad's writing craziness, since I griped about it at times like these. When Mom had divorced him and moved to another city for her job, it was hard to get him out of bed, dressed, showered. Even to get him to eat. But over time, his friends and I encouraged him to get back into his favorite hobby, writing, so he'd have a reason to get up every day.

It worked. Dad finished a book. Got an agent. Got a multibook deal. The hobby Mom had disliked so intensely while they'd been married became his sole method of earning money.

Now I couldn't keep Dad out of the office, but at least he seemed happier. All that angst and frustration and anger he'd felt about Mom had been funneled into his writing craft. He spent hours agonizing over the perfect phrases, the darkest plot twists, and the most sinister characters.

“This lasagna is great,” Ethan said to me as he took another bite.

I tried not to watch the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed, the lean lines of his neck. The curve of his lips wrapped around the fork. But even the mundane seemed entrancing when he did it.

I was ridiculously, hopelessly in love with my best guy friend.

Despite my efforts to take my time eating—knowing that after dinner Ethan and I would be talking—dinner went all too fast. Dad cleared his plate and made a beeline for his office. Which left me and Ethan. Alone.

I rinsed the plates and loaded the dishwasher with Ethan's help. We wrapped up the leftovers. I grabbed two mugs and poured coffee I'd brewed a couple of hours ago, reheated them in the microwave, and then handed him one.

Without speaking, we both moved upstairs into my room, him right behind me. I could feel his eyes on my back, and it made my spine itch. I led him in. He sat on the edge of my bed, while I sat on my computer chair.

His gaze roamed over the sheet music on my bed, the guitar. While he didn't play any music, he loved hearing my songs and
often asked me to make one up for him. If only he knew how many I'd written in my head. Ones I could never sing because they spilled all of me, my rawest feelings, my deepest secrets, out for all to hear.

For
him
to hear.

“Can you play it for me?” he asked in a quiet tone.

My heart raced as I reached over and picked up the guitar, then adjusted the sheets for easy viewing. Thankfully, I hadn't gotten to writing down the lyrics yet, so the words could stay safely locked away in my head.

I strummed a few warm-up chords, then began to play. The song was incomplete, but the first two verses and the chorus were there, supported by a dancing bass line. I kept my eyes firmly on the paper and tried not to peek over at Ethan to gauge his reaction.

Would he be able to guess this song was for him? About him? No, he wouldn't assume it.

My fingers fumbled just once, but I quickly recovered and finished what I'd written. When the last chord finished, the music vibrated into the silence, then faded away. We sat there without speaking for a couple of minutes, and I dared a glance at Ethan's face. There was an intensity in his eyes; he'd been staring at me the whole time.

My throat tightened. I rested the guitar on my lap. “I still have to write more.”

“And lyrics, right? It was gorgeous. What's it about?”

Oh, not much. Just about you and how crazy I am about you.
A hot flush crept up my cheeks. “I don't know yet.” God, I hated lying to him.

Ethan shifted on the bed and gave a heavy sigh. His eyes turned sad. “You don't like him, do you.”

I didn't need to ask who he was talking about. I knew who he meant. Noah, the guy who was on his mind, who occupied his heart. “That's not it.” That part was true. Noah wasn't a bad person; in fact, he was generally nice to everyone. No one had a legit complaint about how he treated them.

Didn't change the fact that I wanted Ethan for myself.

“Then why are you being so weird? Ever since I told you last weekend that I wanted to ask him to prom, you've been strange.” He rested his hands in his lap.

I put the guitar away in its case and put the sheet music back in my folder. My brain scrambled for the right words, the ones that would soothe him but not give away how I really felt. After all, the truth wasn't an option here.

“It's because I asked you to help me with the promposal, isn't it?” I heard a tinge of emotion in his voice and looked over at him. He was staring at the wall behind me. “It put you in a weird spot, like I was dumping my issues on your shoulders. I'm sorry I didn't realize it before.”

True, yet not true. My mouth filled with unspoken words I struggled to bite back.

Ethan turned angst-filled eyes to me and stood. “I'm sorry, man. Of course you don't have time to help me with this. I never meant it to get in the way of our friendship.” He turned toward the door.

“No, don't,” I blurted out.

Dammit. I couldn't let him think he was a jerk for asking a friend to help. Why would he think otherwise? Friends helped each other. God knew he'd helped me more times than I could count.

I shoved aside my selfish emotions. I had to help Ethan, had to put my feelings on the back burner. My friend needed me, to the point where he even felt guilty about asking me to assist him. Afraid it would come between us.

Ethan was no user. And I was an ass to make him feel that way.

God, this was going to suck. But it was the right thing to do.

He frowned as he looked at me. Crossed his arms.

I bit my lip and gave a casual shrug. “I'm an idiot. I feel way out of my league with planning promposals and I'm afraid of letting you down.” To a degree, that was true. Though just a small sliver of the whole truth.

His shoulders relaxed, and the tension lines around his mouth eased. One eyebrow rose. “You? A failure at planning something amazing?” A smile crept onto his face as he shook his head in disbelief.

I pressed a hand to my chest and sniffed. The bubble of sorrow grew bigger, but I shoved it down, focused instead on the relief that my friend was no longer filled with anxiety about us. “I know. But I do have
some
mortal flaws, you know, though they're few and far between.”

Ethan moved back to the bed and sat down. “I have no idea how to go about this. He's barely noticed my existence. How do I craft a promposal that won't freak him out or make him reject me?”

“He'd be an idiot to turn you down,” I said in full honesty. “But first things first. The best way for us to make your promposal amazing is to make it personal. We need to find out what we can about him. Let's start with you telling me what you already know.”

About five minutes into this exercise, I regretted it and wanted
to chew off my own hand. I learned that Noah always eats healthy meals at school, that he has all As and Bs in his classes, he's left-handed and likes to tutor students who need help in English. Even his damned fingers were perfect. No chewed nails, unlike mine, which were a hot mess because of my anxiety over Ethan this week. I curled my hands around my pen even more to hide them from view.

“Well, that gives us a place to start,” I said. I dropped the pen and leaned back in my chair.

“Thank you,” Ethan said. His voice wasn't light and peppy but deep, full of emotion. He leaned forward, resting those lean forearms on his sturdy thighs, and peered up at me. “I couldn't do this without you.”

“Yes, you could.” I gave him my best crooked grin. “But I'm here for you.”

We spent another half hour or so bullshitting about everything and nothing. Once the topic of Noah was dropped, our friendship slid back into its easy existence, the way it always had. Yapping about our baseball team and who had the best stats so far, how progress with the senior musical was going, which classes were giving us headaches. Who had the tightest ass on the soccer team.

Ethan glanced at his watch. He rolled his eyes. “Shit. Gotta watch my sister tonight. Parents are going to a concert and asked me to babysit.”

Which meant Darlene, his eight-year-old sister, would spend all evening hounding Ethan to play Barbies and dress-up.

I snorted. “Have fun, Prince Ken.”

He shoved my arm. “Shut up, or I'll make you join us.”

Part of me was tempted, as goofy as it sounded.

I escorted him to the door and watched Ethan walk down the sidewalk toward his car, coat draped over his arm. He got in and drove off.

I stood there in the doorway for a couple of minutes, trying to smile, trying to pretend I wasn't making what felt like the biggest sacrifice of my life.

I
popped my last cold French fry in my mouth and kept an eye on the main food court doors. No sign of Carter. We'd been waiting a half hour for him to show, sitting at the table in semi-awkward silence, just watching people walk by.

Benjamin sipped his soda. “He's not coming.”

“Big shocker there.” I tossed my trash, then sat back down. It was hard not to feel deflated, and we hadn't even started our project yet. When Benjamin had asked me to show up early, I'd thought it meant we were going to spend some time talking beforehand. Maybe getting to know each other or something. Instead, he'd been all business, ironing out which parts of the mall were the best populated for our purposes, which experiment we should try first, and so on.

“We should go ahead and get started.” He stood, dumped his empty cup. “Time's a-wastin'.”

I shoved aside my feelings and put on my game face. Today was going to be all about school. At least I knew it up front so there wasn't any confusion. I squared my shoulders. “Sounds good.”

We headed to one wing, where younger teens and adults were milling around from store to store. He and I had decided we were going to try the random hand-holding in this area. My palms got sweaty from nerves, but I wiped them on my jeans and took in a steadying breath. My blood thrummed in my veins.